Nightmares and Rainfall
by Eisteufel
Summary: John hasn't overcome his traumatic experiences in Afghanistan. The memories of the war and his injury still haunt him, in the dark of the night they creep into his mind and body, make him cry out in pain. But Sherlock is determined to do something against this nuisance. Hurt/Comfort, a little Angst. Sherlock X John
1. Please God, let me live!

_Hello there, everyone :)_

_I'm happy to see you just stumbled across my little story about Sherlock and John. I think it's really interesting to take a closer look at John's past as a soldier and his traumatic experiences in Afghanistan. Sherlock thinks the same here ;) Because of that, this story will deal mostly with John's memories of the war and how Sherlock helps him overcoming his nightmares._

_**Disclaimer: **I don't own the characters of Sherlock Holmes. They all belong entirely to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. I don't earn a single cent with this story - all just for fun._

_**Rated: T - **__might evolve into M later on... ;)  
_

_**Pairing: **Sherlock X John_

_Have fun reading and as usual: comments are candy ;)_

* * *

**Nightmares and Rainfall  
**

**Chapter I**

**"Please God, let me live!"  
**

* * *

_Annoying... it is_ so _annoying..._

He was counting the rain drops falling lazily against the dirty window, dripping down the smooth surface until they formed little rivers of rainwater running down the glass, which quickly moved out of his field of vision. They immediately got replaced by new drops. Drops and drops and even more drops until there were just too many to count them anymore.

He pressed his lean body deeper into the warm cushions of the worn out armchair, fighting against the cold air surrounding him. The fire in the chimney had long ago reduced itself to nothing but smouldering ashes, thus he could feel icecold shivers creeping up and down his spine while he was sitting there motionless, facing the window in order to distract himself for only heaven knows how long.

_Drip, drip, _drip.

He tried.

He really tried to concentrate on the sound of the rain, to let his mind wander and unravell some great, unsolved mysteries in the process, but all his efforts were entirely in vain.

_It doesn't work._

He could taste the coppery flavour of his own blood slowly filling his mouth, when he had bitten a little too hard on his lower lip in pure frustration.

He _hated_ it when it didn't work… to put it mildly, it pissed him off to unknown limits.

_What a senseless waste of time..._

The cigarette between his fingers was slowly dying down, he had lost interest in it right after the very first drag of nicotine but he liked the feeling of it between his fingers. So nostalgic. He didn't mind the ashes falling on the floor. So completely uninteresting.

A small, malicious sneer tugged at his mouth's corner when he realized that the rainfall had intensified, a silvery curtain of water was pouring down into the dark night right behind the window. He liked the sound it made, a soothing sought that made you content and drowsy. Yes, it could have been such a relaxing evening, just sitting there, listening to the rain, solving some elaborate enigmas and riddles just for jolly, while the fire was licking at the heavy logs in the fireplace. But once again it didn't work. Because he was repeatedly distracted from it, everytime he tried to focus on something else, his mind was mercilessly drawn back to this goddamn distracting factor with a vengeance, making it impossible to concentrate. Even for him.

_Screams._

Again and again there were these screams.

Screams of terror and pure agony echoed through the little flat and were reflected by the bare walls of the corridor like an infinite loop.

Involuntarily he winced. Winced everytime when these horrible sounds reached his ears.

_What a terrible, _nerve wrecking_ noise..._

Groaning in sheer frustration he covered his face with his bony hands, meanwhile letting his head fall against the back of the chair. He had to think. Think, damn it!

_Jesus Christ, what shall I do?_

The simple fact that he had to ask himself this question _at all_ was the worst about this whole situation. He _always_ knew what to do. The sensation of being clueless was something outright knew to him and he didn't like it. Didn't like it _at all._

Without even wanting it his mind was working on its own, was wandering back to the first time he had heard those strange noises which had quickly revealed themselves to be screams. To his shame he had to admit that they had almost scarced him to death. So entirely unexpected they had startled him in the middle of the night, caused him to bolt upright in his bed, heart beating heavily against his ribs and his pulse rushing through his veins, violently pulsing behind his temples. A throbbing pain. He had tried to listen, forced himself to focus and concentrate to decipher if it wasn't just his dream spilling into the reality of his dark bedroom. But after a few seconds he had realized it wasn't, it _couldn't_ be a dream and the screams and groans were as real as the perfect darkness surrounding him.

It weren't sentences. No, not even words. Just incoherent fragments of words once said and orders hectically shouted. Sometimes it was impossible to make even this little sense out of the sounds. Most of the time it were just groans of pain which were always going over into muffled screams and finally increased until they became cries of agony.

When he had decided to get up that night to take a look after the cause of this racket, the sight had tied up his throat. He didn't know why it suddenly had been so damn difficult to breathe...

But he saw it. And he understood. The for a man fairly small, slim figure was tossing and turning between the sheets, sweat was glistening on his forehead, the face a distorted grimace which had almost no resemblance to the usually gentle features of the person he called his only friend anymore at all.

He had just been standing there. Listening. Watching. Stoically leaning against the door frame with arms tightly crossed in front of his chest, not knowing if he should wake him up from the nightmares that were haunting him or if the confrontation with them would just make matters worse. He had decided to let him sleep, even though he obviously wouldn't find any rest or relief in it.

_And now this is going for weeks straight..._

He was sure John didn't even know he was screaming at night. The morning after Sherlock had heard the screams for the first time, John had staggered into the kitchen as usual, tired but his usual self, friendly wishing him his usual 'good morning' and pouring himself a cup of coffee while smiling softly. As _usual._

So yes, Sherlock was pretty _damn sure_ that John had no idea about how he was passing his nights. The only clue the doctor had noticed himself was that he was constantly getting more and more tired, the dark bluish circles under his eyes which had always been there, ever since the very first day Sherlock had laid eyes on John, steadily intensified. Unlike before they never vanished entirely over the course of the day. Like a silent reminder of the dreadful nights the violet circles always stayed in place.

John didn't seem to notice.

The sound of the now heavily pelting rain drops brought Sherlock back from his silent musing.

He sighed. The rain almost sounded like the barrage of a machine gun.

The screams upstairs got worse.

_It can't go on like this…_

Decidedly Sherlock jumped out of the armchair. Throwing the already extinguished cigarette stub into the untouched cup of freezing cold coffee, with long stride he walked right up to John's bedroom.

Yes, it wasn't just his imagination. Since the rain had started to fall the screams were continously getting louder... Just when he wanted to open the door he froze in the middle of the motion. He felt like he had been petrified, like his heart had missed a beat when, for the first time, he could clearly distinguish words in his friends cries behind the wooden door and it hit him like a ton of bricks, his own words were flooding back into his racing mind:

_If you die, if you've been murdered, in your very last few seconds what would you say?_

Sherlock knew the answer, the answer which was shouted over and over again right on the other side.

"Please God, let me live!"

* * *

_To be continued... I hope you had fun reading :) Greetings and see you soon! Eisteufel  
_


	2. Over

_Hello again^^ Well, I have to say I'm quicker than I've expected... God bless youtube and all the nice Johnlock-videos for inspiration. And thanks for the warm welcome to this - for me at least - entirely new fandom and the nice comments. So, without any further ado, the new chapter. Get a look inside dear John's traumatized mind ;)  
_

* * *

**Chapter II**

**Over**

* * *

There was only one sound.

One particular sound that long ago had etched itself into his memory. It was ineradicable, like it had always been a part of him. Something he would always associate with war.

A monotonous clatter and bang.

_Bang, bang,_ bang.

It never ceased. Sometimes it grew quieter, became dull and indistinct but it never stopped. It was always there.

"Watson!"

Someone was screaming, yelling for him but he had no idea who that faceless person was that had turned around, stared at him out of a face deprived of all human features. Simply a blank mask hovering above a uniform.

Out of nowhere the world around him suddenly got entirely black and hazy, he felt like he was hurled through the air like a leaf in autumn and with a horrible thud that pressed all remaining air out of his aching lungs he hit the dusty ground. Sand was filling his mouth and throat, made it so damn hard to breathe and a piercing pain expanded from his shoulder, rankled through his entire body like lightning.

He was hit.

He knew he was hit.

He had no idea how and where, but he _knew_ he was. Suddenly he felt terribly dizzy, a sickening nausea was about to take control over him while everything around him started to turn round and round like a carousel getting more and more out of control.

Yes, there it was. The moment every soldier feared.

The raging sound of war was surrounding him, swallowing up all signs of life until there was nothing left but a dull, hollow burr wrapping itself around everything like a heavy woolen coat. Silencing everything. All voices faded, the cries for mercy, the shouts for help, the omnipresent shooting of the heavy artillery and the never stopping machine guns, they all slowly faded into an ongoing howling noise that worked itself into his mind, into his brain, into his very being until he heard nothing else but that ongoing sound. As if the whole world suddenly had held it's breath and was humming.

For once the bang had ended.

The dust in his lungs made him cough, frantically he tried to gasp for sufficient air but it still felt like he was suffocating. Dull eyes were hectically scanning the darkness, his heart beat raced behind his temples - where the hell was he? Where had his battalion gone? Within the blink of an eye he was all alone. There wasn't anyone left. Only the pain, the searing pain in his upper chest which steadily became more and more unbearable.

_You'll die. You'll die here!_

Faces.

Faces flashed before his inner eye like a passing train - friends, family, persons he so long had forgotten about suddenly scurried by in a raging river of memories, moving faster and faster with every elapsed second. And suddenly the howling stopped.

_Bang, bang, bang!_

The sound of war was back again.

_God… please God… don't let me die here… don't let me die… let me live…_

"John!_"_

At first it was nothing but a hoarse whisper. A strange whisper somewhere in the distance that just didn't seem to fit into this scene. It felt so terribly misplaced. He could feel the concrete ground beneath his trembling body, the dust and sand everywhere and he was all alone except for that voice. His trembling hands reached out, tried to grasp for something, _anything_ for support. He somehow knew that voice… he was so _damn sure_ he knew that voice shouting his name over and over again but it wasn't right here. The voice wasn't right.

"John! John!"

A small smile tugged at his bleeding lip. Was the voice getting worried? Was that someone who was calling him actually getting worried because he was lying here?

The nausea was becoming vicious when suddenly someone, something, was shaking him violently, his entire body was moving back and forth, tossed around like a mindless ragdoll. His shoulder… his goddamn shoulder, it hurt so bad he had to grit his teeth until his jaw ached to suppress an anguished cry of pain, did his best to hold back those pathetic tears but it was in vain. He could feel them, slowly, relentlessly they were running down his burning cheeks like drops of boiling water, rolling down, down, _down_.

The pain was getting consistently worse, a sharp sting worked its way from his shoulder through his whole body, eating through his chest, took his breath away. Was this how dying felt like? Hearing ghostly whispers of voices long ago faded?

"_John_!"

His throat hurt and felt like sandpaper, bruised lips had problems to move, his tongue seemed to be twisted in his mouth but finally he managed to mumble. Nothing but a stutter at first but he desperately struggled to utter these last damn words:

"Please God, let me live!"

Without even realizing it, the whispered words grew on to become shouts. He was shouting against the pain, against the tears and against the overall chaos of war surrounding him. Shouting and screaming at the top of his voice until his lungs ached and his voice snapped. Only screaming this only fervent, all-consuming wish, addressed to the strange voice that was still yelling his name.

"Whoever you are, don't let me die here!"

"John… wake up, John! _Wake up_!"

He blinkered.

A dark ceiling found its way into his field of vision.

He could feel the soft, slightly wet sheets under his body, his rigid fingers that had digged itself into the cloth like the claws of some wild animal, felt the moist lines on his hot face slowly drying up. All he could hear was his own heavy breathing and the frantic racing of a heart. The echo of his scream still lingered in this little room. It was his bedroom… beige walls, a dirty curtain, his bed.

It was over. It was just a dream. All that was long ago over. _Over_.

"So you are finally awake."

* * *

_See you soon.^^_


	3. It's Ridiculous!

_Oh dear, oh dear... yes, I've got a run... definitely ^.^ Hope you have fun reading!_

* * *

**Chapter III**

**It's Ridiculous!**

* * *

The soothing sound of the heavily pouring rain behind the window and the dull noise of the nighttime traffic on the street below were the only noises inside the little room apart from the heavy, incoherent panting of his companion who was staring at him like he was some kind of apparition, sitting on the edge of his bed and waiting for him to calm down enough to talk.

Sherlock didn't move a single muscle, he didn't even dare to breathe when he was silently beginning to analyze his friend out of his eye's corner.

_Finally it is over…_

Although he had decided weeks ago that he wouldn't interfere and wake him up from his nightmares, this time they seemed to be so bad, he had no real alternative. When he had opened the bedroom door, John was throwing himself around on the bed like he was obsessed by an evil spirit, ceaselessly screaming this only line again and again until Sherlock's ears were ringing and a serious headache about to set in. He had tried to talk to him, to yell his name, to wake him up from his personal demons but nothing had actually worked. The only option left was taking him by both shoulders and shaking him heavily back and forth. After several seconds - which appeared to him like they were expanding into ages - this rather brutal treatment finally had evoked the desired result. John had opened his eyes, completely disoriented and staring at him in sheer panic. Without wanting it, the little hairs on Sherlock's neck were still standing on end, felt like at some point of the night they had become electrified. But he felt relieved. Tired, but relieved.

_Finally the damn screaming is over._

The silence was strange, though. The whole situation was uncomfortable, mostly because it obviously still was difficult for John Watson to fully realize where he was and who had been talking to him. The very first seconds he had just blinkered hectically, as if he was still seeing the pictures of his dreams in front of his eyes and manically tried to shoo them away. Slowly, terribly slowly like a mechanic puppet he had finally managed to turn his head towards the source of the voice that had taken him back from Afghanistan to England, looking at him with a vacant expression on his pale, sweaty face before he was frantically turning his head around. His eyes were sceptically scanning the walls surrounding him, the window, the ceiling, the bed he was sitting upon, just to come back to Sherlock's face again, brows furrowed before he sighed deeply, running his fingers through his hair.

All this was enough proof for Sherlock that his friend still hadn't entirely arrived in reality yet. And even though he wouldn't have needed it, he still ran his gaze over his companion in the manner which was so engraved into his very being that it almost happened automatically. It worked like the programme of a machine.

_Rigid, white knuckles, caused be fingers tightly grasping the sheets – he's searching for support. Sweat on is forehead, heavy, incoherent breathing – serious inner distress, signs of panic. Reddened eyes, tears – pain, sadness. His hand are shaking -  
_

"The tremor is back", Sherlock stated blankly without batting an eyelash when his interrogating gaze paused on the slightly shaking hands lying on the crumpled-up bed sheets. John didn't seem to notice himself, surprised he lifted a hand in front of his face and watched with frozen features how the pinky and ring finger were slightly wiggling, while his entire hand was trembling in the air at a high frequency.

"It will go away as soon as I have to shoot a person in order to protect you from yourself", he retorted with a sigh and a small, tired smile crept onto his face. Sherlock knew that smile pretty well and he outright _hated_ it. It was his 'everything-is-ok-smile', the smile he was always displaying when he was feeling uncomfortable and nothing, absolutely _nothing_ was alright at all. Slowly he lowered his hand, grasping the sheets again in order to restrain his hands from shaking visibly.

"As soon as I have forgotten about this nightmare it will surely get better", he continued and lifted his head to look at him, the false smile still in place.

_God John, do you _really _think that smile persuades me? If it would have been anyone else, I would feel deeply appalled! _

"What were you dreaming then?" Sherlock asked the more than obvious question. He didn't need John's answer. He knew the answer already. But he needed his reaction to it.

For a short moment eyelids fluttered in taken off-guard surprise.

_He is thinking how much he can tell. Oh dear...  
_

Only with half an ear listening, Sherlock noticed that the rain had stopped. Wringing his hands in his lap, John seemed to have realized the same. His breathing became lower, a little more relaxed.

"I thought…" he began, the voice dry and raspy from too many shouts, but he immediately stopped himself, lowered his head as if he had to ponder on something. Sherlock could literally see the words running through his friends mind, trying to form coherent sentences, being thrown around, resembled, changed back and forth before he finally raised his head once more and continued in a matter-of-fact tone:

"I was in Afghanistan again. The day I got shot."

_It's his army-tone... be matter of fact, don't show emotion. Hide behind the mask.  
_

Obviously subcouncious he was biting his lower lip while his attention was drawn towards his once wounded shoulder.

"I thought..."

_Gaze steadily attached to shoulder - recalling the memories of the pain._

"I though I was dying and-"

"Oh don't be ridiculous!" Sherlock brusquely interrupted him with his outburst, a blonde head of hair shot up from its examination of the shoulder with what appeared to be the speed of lightning, glaring an entirely confused look out of tired, widened eyes at him in the process.

"You are a doctor. You _knew_ you wouldn't die from a shot in the _shoulder_."

The very moment he had uttered these words out loud he wanted nothing more but to bite off his tongue_. _

_Timing, Sherlock, timing_, John's usual disapproving voice was echoing inside his head and the daggers his companion were glaring at him were becoming seriously vicious. Taking a deep breath in order to steady himself, John straightened his back before he snarled in a toneless hiss:

"If you are lying there, somewhere in the desert, feeling nothing but this throbbing never ceasing pain that is creeping inside your chest while hell is let loose around you, believe me, you have _no fucking idea_ if the bullet that hit you is fatal or not. All you feel is a searing ache and the burning heat of the sun on your face but even though you're feeling cold and start to shiver like in the midst of winter without a coat and all you can think of is to pray to any higher being out there to not let you parish on the ground like a goddamn horse."

Sherlock could feel John's hot breath fanning over his cheeks, felt the gaze burning itself inside his skin when his friend had come continually closer, leaning his upper body towards him until his nose was almost touching his own.

"And now Sherlock, tell me once again that this horrible feeling is _ridiculous_."

* * *

_Uuuuh I like angry John... I really, really do like him ^.^ See you soon with the next chapter. It really is an inspiration that it is raining here for three days straight... :D_


	4. Stars

_Behold my friends, we are getting closer to some nice one-on-one action between Sherlock and John ;) Bear with me!_

* * *

**Chapter IV**

**Stars**

* * *

Dark brown eyes were holding his gaze sternly, like he was trying to stab him with nothing but sheer willpower. The dark violet circles underneath them, the angrily furrowed brows and the overall impression that these eyes were somehow lying way too deep in their respective sockets made Sherlock's mouth dry and sticky. It took him a few seconds to cope with the situation and get his wits together. Oh _how_ he hated that particular feeling of being completely flabbergasted by something. Swallowing hard to clear his throat from something that decisively felt like a lump of steel wool, he finally managed to mumble: "I didn't mean it like that."

The frozen gaze that was trying to invent a possibility to tear him to pieces by just looking at him still didn't warm up in the slightest, it eventually lost a little of its threatening intensity when its owner slowly started to shake his head in silent disapproval.

"Yes you did", he whispered, lifting his head again and displaying an expression Sherlock had never seen on his friend's pale face before. Some kind of strange, unknown expression was written in scarlet letters all over it but he wasn't able to categorize it right away like he usually did with all his friend's facial expressions and gestures.

_He is angry… judging by the way his body reacts he's terribly angry but there is something different to it…_

He didn't have the time to ponder on it any further, when his thoughts were brusquely interrupted by the voice of his companion. Louder this time, quavering with rage and somehow sounding an octave darker than usual:

"Yes you meant it, you meant every single word you just said."

Shaking hands were formed into tightly clenched fists. Was it to prevent them from shaking or to prevent himself from jumping down Sherlock's throat, the consulting detective couldn't tell for sure. The whole situation was outright confusing. Usually he could read John Hamish Watson like an open book written in oversized letters. But like it was the case with the scarlet letters on John's face, it didn't seem to work out right now.

_Why is it so damn hard to read him when he is this angry? There is something I can't clearly put my finger on...  
_

He blinkered. His mind tried to fit the missing piece into the puzzle.

_Think, Sherlock, think. What is different? Why is it that his current state differs so much from all the other occasions he was really pissed off?_

It was like a jolt of electricity had suddenly rushed through his veins, was boiling up his blood and scales fell from his eyes when he realized the more than obvious hints. The slight trembling of a lower lip, the flushed cheeks which were contrasting the otherwise way too pale skin, the constantly intensifying frown running over John's forehead and that unusually deep but so _hurt_ sounding voice.

_He's disappointed!_

But Sherlock couldn't savour the triumph of his newly found solution for long.

"You meant it just the way you said because it simply doesn't occur to your _oh so brilliant _mind that saying such words might actually _upset_ people! And now, if you would excuse me, I would like to get changed", John snarled darkly, obviously barely keeping his temper. Still moving like a mechanic puppet he raised himself and went to his dresser, thereby giving Sherlock a chance to recognized the thin fabric of his pajamas covering his back was entirely wet, sticking to his heated skin like a second, semi see-through skin.

Thin, dark eyebrows narrowed while he watched his friend. John was still shivering. Not much, just a little, barely visible to the bare eye. And he was acting way too quickly, was way too hectic when he started to roam inside his drawers, again and again throwing pullovers and trousers to the floor until he finally pulled out another thin shirt, meanwhile tugging at the wet cloth of the one he was wearing with his free hand until it finally went over his head and was carelessly thrown to the pile on floor as well.

"Do you like watching me undress so much? Don't you have better things to do?" he hissed in a voice dripping with biting sarcasm when he turned on his heel, facing Sherlock with a very annoyed expression on his face which was only slowly regaining its usual colour. Trembling hands were fiddling with the small buttons of the new pajamas shirt but weren't able to close them at once, they were always slipping through his fingers like sand.

"Let me do that", Sherlock stated plainly, slowly but surely getting irritated by John's useless fiddling and was already on his way to help him when the latter bolted upright and glared at him like a fury, eyes narrowed to dangerously small slits:

"Don't touch that! I can handle that very well. On my own!"

He was almost yelling, slowly stepping several steps backwards until his rear reached the solid wooden dresser.

_Jesus Chris, this _is_ annoying!_

Not intimidated by this behaviour in the slightest, Sherlock simply narrowed his gaze, fixing it on the first and foremost problem: getting John dressed again.

"Stop that nonsense already, with your trembling fingers it will take ages!"

"Nobody asked you to stay here watching me for ages, feel free to leave any time you like. You know what? That big wooden thing over there in the wall is called _a door_!" the addressed one retorted in a constrained manner, still trying his best to prevent his friend from getting a hold on the buttons.

"I said stop it and behave like a grown man!" Sherlock demanded in a tone he usually only used on _very_ difficult clients and determinedly grabbed the lower button border. John wasn't amused.

"Look who's talking! _Get your hands off me_!"

The razing sound of cloth tearing apart stopped their fight and for a brief moment left them standing there completely motionless. Slowly the torn apart piece of John's shirt was gliding down his left shoulder, revealing something Sherlock had never seen before on his friend, mostly because the ex-soldier always hid it and was willing to fight its revelation with claws and teeth.

It almost looked like a two pound large star with slightly irregular rays. Fine lines of brighter, scarred skin which were expanding from his left shoulder to his upper chest.

Involuntarily his fingers were reaching out to touch the slightly brighter flesh, driven by nothing but pure, overwhelming curiosity but he reckoned without his host. In an abrupt gesture John was stepping backwards, frantically drawing the remains of his pajama shirt over his scar, thereby giving Sherlock a glare that easily could have killed.

Groaning and rolling his eyes in annoyance, Sherlock simply crossed his arms in front of his chest in return. Waiting.

"Oh come on, it can't hurt anymore!"

"It doesn't _hurt_", John spit out the last word like it was venom, still trying his best to cover his chest with the pitiable remains of his shirt.

"At least not much", he added a little more composed when the cloth stayed in place and meekly shrugged his slender shoulders. "The skin is still very sensitive, that's all", he continued in a toneless voice, relaxing at little more and lessening his grip around the cloth when Sherlock made new further attempt to touch him.

"I'll find another shirt for you", Sherlock finally stated lowly after a few awkward seconds of silence, nonchalantly squeezing past the petrified John to get to his drawers.

_Got you!_

Curiosity really was something Sherlock couldn't resist to. Not even if he really tried and he usually didn't put even that little effort into it.

Seizing the moment when John eventually had let down his guard and was taking a deep breath to calm himself, Sherlock tore the piece of cloth out of his companion's hand, smartly placing his fingers onto the star shaped scar, earning a constrained hiss in response.

John didn't move. He didn't even seem to dare breathing while he was just standing there ramrod straight as warm fingers were gently tracing the fine lines running over his shoulder.

"Are you satisfied now?" John snapped defiantly, his voice sounding hoarse and raspy.

A wicked smile was dancing around Sherlock's mouth, fingertips were gently touching heated skin.

"Oh yes, very much indeed. It feels soft. I never would have guessed scars could feel that way."

* * *

_Oh dear, oh dear… now I'm really, really anxious to hear what you say about this new chapter.^^ I really did my best in order to keep them both in character, I hope it worked out the way I intended… ;) _

_Hope you had fun reading and see you soon with the next chapter… hopefully it starts to rain again here, so I have time and inspirations ;)_


	5. Stop being a Nuisance!

_Huzzah! First of all: thank you all for the great support^^ It's just great. The comments have already hit double digits, thank you very much! :) It's really nice to see you like my little story so much._

_So, without much further ado the new chapter. Sherlock and John bickering... oh, how I like them bickering ;)_

* * *

**Chapter 5**

**Stop being a Nuisance!**

* * *

He was trying to ignore him. Tried _hard_ to ignore him together with the unfamiliar touch of fingertips on his shoulder that were slowly but surely driving him insane. He really did his best to stare through him like he was nothing but thin air but out of his eye's corner he still followed even the faintest movement of those fingers, dancing over his overheated skin. He tried to fix his gaze on something… _anything_ distracting but his eyes were always drawn back again to these damn, surprisingly warm digits exploring his star shaped scar. His muscles and sinews were tense as a bow and ached, almost felt like they were about to tear apart, but he still didn't dare to move.

_Oh dear Lord, why?_

Like a ghostly whisper Sherlock's breath fanned over his shoulder when the detective leaned in a little closer to take a better look at the healed wound.

_It's alright, it's okay… he's just touching your weakest spot, nothing to worry about. Sherlock Holmes is touching your scar… Sherlock Holmes is... oh don't snap… just don't snap!_

"Don't make that face", the reason for his gloomy thoughts uttered in a low voice, eyes still glued to the brighter skin. The addressed one didn't answer. Oh no, like hell he would continue making that face, especially if it was the only visible indication for Sherlock that he _didn't like_ him touching his shoulder. Not at all!

"I was always interested in the way your scar looked like", Sherlock continued airily after a short moment of silence, displaying a smug smile on his features, meanwhile still tracing the fine lines of the scar with his fingertips like it was a very interesting map. "Judging by the fact that the shot in your shoulder caused a post-traumatic-stress-disorder, a psychosomatic limb and a tremor I thought it had to look really, _really_ nasty but in fact it doesn't." He looked up from his object of interest for a moment to take an inquisitive look at John's face, who instantly decided to look the other way.

_What a lovely pattern this wallpaper has..._

"The surgeon who fixed you up did a pretty good job."

John was biting his tongue to hold back a really, _really _vicious comment. He didn't know what else he could reply to this odd estimation of his friend. Yes, he had been fixed up good in regard to his shoulder and its overall function. But his emotional state was an entirely different matter and the ever-present star etched into the flesh of his shoulder wasn't especially helping to overcome his memories of the war. This goddamn silent reminder of his time in Afghanistan would never fade away and even the faintest thought about it burned in his throat like bile.

"You'll always need to have it your way, don't you?" he finally decided to answer, still adoring the ugly pattern on the wall and could feel how the movement of the fingers stopped for a second, before they suddenly intensified the touch.

It felt strange.

So damn strange having someone touching his scar and of all people it just had to be Sherlock Holmes… no, this fact wasn't helping to calm him down, he could feel his heart beating frantically against his rib cage. Finally the fingers withdrew and he felt like a massive leaden weight was falling from his shoulders, he was able to breath freely again. The entire time Sherlock had been examining his scar he had felt like a deer caught in a car's spotlight. Or even worse… like one of those tiny microbes Sherlock liked to look at through his microscope. Nothing but an interesting object he wanted to study.

A gentle chuckle filled the air of the little room, the bare walls made it sound way louder than it should have been.

"See it as a compensation for all the sleepless nights your screams have cost me", Sherlock grinned.

John blinkered in confusion.

_Nights_?

"What do you mean? _Nights_?" he required constrained, the memories of the previous nights which all had been almost as bad as tonight rushed back to his mind like an express train.

Sherlock just shrugged his shoulders lackadaisically, getting himself seated on the edge of the bed again, casually crossing his legs while explaining:

"You were screaming for at least two weeks straight now… horrible, I tell you. Simply horrible that ruckus you made. A real nuisance."

John could feel how something inside him violently tensed up to the point his stomach ached, before it finally snapped. Suppressing the shaking of his hands by clenching them to fists until his knuckles became white and rigid, he slowly stepped towards Sherlock.

"_Nuisance_?" he hissed dangerously low, his whole body was quivering with withhold anger which slowly found its way to the surface. He could feel his mouth becoming dry and how his eyebrow started twitching.

"You woke me up right now just because my screams were disturbing you? All... all you're worried about when you heard me screaming was that it's an_ annoyance_ to you?"

"Why else should I've done it?" Sherlock retorted with a perplexed expression on his clear-cut face, thin eyebrows were raised in a wordless question, hiking his shoulders in an innocent manner like a school boy who didn't understand his teacher's question.

"Oh bloody hell, yes I _really_ wonder what else could have caused you to do it", John hollered, thereby throwing his hands in the air in a helpless gesture of incomprehension, thus making him look like he was praying to some higher being for support. "But no… no in fact I _don't_ wonder at all. It was my fault, entirely _my_ fault to even think… _think_ for a single second that you might have actually been worried about me. My mistake, it will never happen again. "

"Stop saying such stupid nonsense and calm down already", Sherlock groaned, a deep line was beginning to run over his forehead. He was supporting his head with his left hand. "I just didn't want to-"

"That's excatly the problem!", John nonchalantly interrupted Sherlock, hands still in the air, fulfilling hectic gestures. "You're so damn selfish! You don't give a crap about other people's feeling because you are Sherlock Holmes! Maybe I didn't want to talk about it, maybe I was happy that you didn't seem to notice I'm having nightmares but_ no_, you have to confront me with them in the most insensitive and blatant manner possible and just rub it in my face. Do you have any idea how it feels like being haunted every night by these never ending nightmares? _Do you?_"

"John, calm down. _Please_", Sherlock demanded, his voice getting darker with steadily rising annoyance. "I just said your screams were pretty loud."

"Oh and I'm _awfully_ sorry I've disturbed your beauty sleep, Mr. sharp cheekbones, I'm guilty-ridden to no end", the ex-soldier continued furiously, voice chilly as a day in winter, talking himself more and more into a wilde rage while walking around the room like a tiger in his cage. Sherlock was placing his chin on his folded fingers, dark curls covering his eyes.

"And you always-"

"Stop it already", the voice of the detective was slowly getting more and more irritated. "Stop crying havoc and being on a goddamn rampage for heaven's sake, it's giving me a headache!"

"Oh dear me! What a damn pity! Shall I fetch you some Aspirin, dear?"

"You start behaving childish!"

"Well that's what I call a change for once. So you will liste-"

For a short moment John couldn't tell what was happening to him. Out of nowhere Sherlock had suddenly jumped off the bed like a Jack in the box and was standing right in front of him, a broad chest had miraculously found its way into his field of vision. Bony fingers were frmly grabbing both of his shoulders, pressing them against the next best wall like it was nothing. Dry lips were touching his own, pressing themselves violently against them when Sherlock leanend in for a kiss, keeping John in place with nothing but the weight of his own body. An unknown heat was rushing trough his veins when he could feel Sherlock's skin radiating warmth even through two layers of thin fabric.

"Wha-what the hell are you doing?!" John almost squealed, looking at him with an expression that was dangerously close to panic when Sherlock broke off the enforced kiss, simply shrugging his slender shoulders in reply, lessening the vice-like grip around the shoulders a little. Green eyes were looking down at him sceptically, a thin dark eyebrow was raised.

"People do that when they want to calm other people down, don't they?"

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_:D Oh yes dear_


	6. Kiss

_Hello everyone, I'm sorry for the delay but I've been a little busy lately…my exams are killing me -.- But never mind, here it is and I hope you like the new chapter. ^^ Have fun reading!  
_

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**Chapter 6  
**

**Kiss**

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Involuntarily his fingernails had digged themselves deep into the thin cloth of Sherlock's shirt like claws, as if their owner was desperately trying to find any kind of support. His legs quivered and buckled like they were about to give in to the weight of his body any second. The warm breath of his friend whose face was only centimeters apart from his own was warming up the already overheated skin of his flushed cheeks even more, made the omnipresent warmth rushing through his body almost unbearable. John could feel the interrogating green gaze scanning his face, perceiving and reading even the faintest facial expression his tensed muscled fulfilled. It etched itself into his skin and more than ever he felt like he was standing there completely naked and exposed, like nothing he held dear was private and secret anymore. It had always been that way. Ever since the very first day he had met the peculiar, sometimes childlike detective with the brilliant mind the nagging feeling had always prevailed that he couldn't hide anything from Sherlock at all. But it had never felt so _damn_ humiliating.

The intensity of the grip around his shoulders had lessened a little but surprisingly strong, small-boned hands were still firmly keeping him in place, pinned him to the cold wall with astonishing ease. The slight pain in his shoulders finally caused his brain to overcome its severe power failure and to start working somewhat properly again.

"You've been watching too many romantic films lately", John finally forced himself to phrase a coherent response, perfectly knowing that Sherlock never watched films and if he did, it wouldn't be romantic ones. Sherlock simply wasn't receptive for such kind of emotional things… was he?

"Hmpf!"

The condescending snort he got as an answer as soon as he had uttered these words proved him right.

"Like I would ever waste my time with such stupid nonsense", the consulting detective replied contemptuously, obviously feeling deeply appalled by the sheer assumption he actually might waste his precious leisure time with such an outrageous profanity.

"Why did you do it then?" the question was nothing more but a toneless whisper breathed against the pale skin of a small chest covered in purple.

"Because it worked. Obviously", Sherlock countered calmly, actually sounding a little surprised by the doctor's redundant question.

"But you fucking _kissed_ me, for heaven's sake!" John snarled exasperated when he couldn't only vividly imagine but literally _feel _the self-assured, triumphant smile which was dancing around his friend's mouth, even though he was still staring holes into the other man's upper body.

"And? Your pulse is noticeably slowing down, your body is starting to relax again and most importantly you've stopped your temper tantrum as well as the annoying yelling_._ So what do we deduct from all those facts?" Sherlock continued in his lecture tone of voice which he always used on especially unnerving clients and on his special friend and personal gadfly Anderson. It made the ex-soldier raise his hackles. His voice sounded surprisingly cold and raspy in his own ears when he retorted:

"I'm not one of your clients, Sherlock. You don't have to prove your proficiency to _me._"

Finally finding the courage to raise his head he was boldly facing the dark green depths which were still analyzing even the slightest of his movements. But the soft smile that greeted him when he finally met its gaze made him freeze on the spot.

"You are way calmer now, aren't you?" Sherlock simply stated, this time without the private tutor intonation. Releasing John from his strange captivity by lowering his arms and taking a step backwards he granted the ex-soldier a little more space to breathe.

"Simply because I still can't decide whether I should kick you in the nuts or simply punch you in the face for that approach", he stated smugly now that he had finally found the words in his throat. And for some strange reason he could feel a tiny smile tugging at his mouth's corner.

Yet, it was strange. _Very_ strange indeed. Sherlock was right, he was in fact feeling calmer. The chaos and turmoil inside him had been put to rest but he couldn't comprehend how and why such a stupid thing like an unwanted kiss could possibly be the reason for it. It just didn't make any sense and he doubted that Sherlock actually knew right from this start this unorthodox stategy would be successful. Even he, brilliant as he was, wasn't a psychic.

"Well, since you've calmed down a little, I think we should do something about this awkward situation were in right now, don't you agree?" the voice of his friend brought him back from his thoughts.

Without waiting for the doctor's answer Sherlock flopped himself onto the edge of the bed again, crossing his long legs so he could support his chin with his free hand like he always did when he was listening attentively - before tearing the other person verbally to pieces.

"Tell me about the day you got shot."

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_Hope you liked it. See you soon.^^_


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